


Just A Little Cold

by DoubledDoors



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, It Just Doesn't Seem Like It Always, M/M, This Is Basically Just Wilson Taking Care of Maxwell, This Was Supposed to be a Drabble HA, they care about each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubledDoors/pseuds/DoubledDoors
Summary: It's another blizzard and Wilson's gone out to find Maxwell yet again.(For TurnipnTaterTots.)





	Just A Little Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TurnipnTaterTots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurnipnTaterTots/gifts).



> Want to request something? Let me know on Tumblr @rettrohazard!

The snow crunched under Wilson’s worn sneakers as he trudged through the ankle-high plain, battered lantern by his face. While not quite nighttime, the blizzard roaring around the man was more than enough reason to keep it lit.

 

“MAXWELL—!” Wilson shouted, fighting against the wind with each step. “Goddamn this. Goddamn everything!” he snarled, frustrated that his lousy companion would chose now of all times to go missing. Logs. That’s all he’d needed. And yet…

 

_Now is not the time to get mad, Wilson,_ he told himself, _Just figure out where the hell he’s gone._

 

But _Christ_ , was the blizzard absolute insanity. Wilson had trouble walking in a straight line with how hard the wind was blowing. He had to hang onto his catcoon hat for dear life as the air rushed ar—

 

He squinted. Yes. That was Maxwell. Still hacking weakly at a tree.

 

“MAXWELL!” he shouted again, this time at the man. He awkwardly galloped through the deep snow, exasperated by the time he’d reached the other. “You’re a right sap, you know that? What do you think you’re doing—out here in this weather? Come on, now, we’ve got to get you back to the camp,” Wilson rambled as he tugged Maxwell forward, throwing the bearger pelt over thin shoulders, “And what, you’ve got a screw loose! Why’re you still out chopping in this cold?” he continued on, all but dragging the man along behind him.

 

“Are you finished?” Maxwell asked, annoyed, as he stumbled along after Wilson, “You asked for logs, so I got you logs. Stop your whining.”

 

“ _Firstly_ , I’m not _whining_ , I’m explaining to you why your nifty idea to go out in this storm was miserable.”

 

“Oh, pipe down, Higgsbury. I’m not dead.”

 

“Not dead _yet_ , you mean.”

 

Maxwell grumbled, a sound promptly lost in the raging wind, and clung onto Wilson’s arm as to not lose him in the storm. The way back was strenuous; both men sweating under their clothes, yet freezing their extremities off. Each step filled battered shoes with snow eager to melt, clothes soaking up the moisture along the way. Easier said, neither man could feel their feet, and Wilson was quickly losing feeling in the hand gripping the lantern. The other was shoved deep in his pants pocket, and he assumed Maxwell was doing the same.

 

Wilson’s foot abruptly hit wet boards and he nearly slipped, arms windmilling wildly and throwing Maxwell off to the side a few paces. “Jesus—!” he yelped before steadying himself. He glanced over to Maxwell, who looked a bit peeved at being shoved. “Hey, don’t give me that, now. You would’ve froze out there,” he said, tossing a few logs into the pit before turning the lantern off.

 

“I can take care of myself just fine,” Maxwell replied, scowling before making his way to his tent.

 

“Hey, you doof! You’re...oh, blast it,” Wilson muttered, quickly grabbing the ratty old beefalo blanket from a chest. He glanced at the ice box and paused, pursing his lips for a second before taking out a pot of meat stew and setting it near the fire to warm.

 

A rush of cold squirmed in as Wilson entered the tent, making Maxwell scowl again. “What do you _want_ , Higgsbury?” he spat.

 

“Oh, stop being such a baby. I know you’re freezing. You’re shaking!”

 

Maxwell cursed that he was, in fact, shivering badly. So, maybe he wanted a blanket, sure. But he sure as hell didn’t want Wilson to baby him over it. He could take care of himself!

 

“You can’t even take care of yourself, Max,” Wilson added at Maxwell’s silence, and he draped the blanket over the man’s shoulders, “Least you can do is let me do it.”

 

“Fine, Higgsbury, do what you must,” the magician grumbled, waving a hand, the other drawing the blanket closer, “As long as you get out of my hair.”

 

Wilson smiled at that, dropping a hand on Maxwell’s shoulder and rubbing gently. “C’mon, you big grump. Just sit down and I’ll grab you some food.”

 

With the way Maxwell’s legs had turned to jelly at even the slightest display of physical affection, he didn’t have much of a choice but to do as Wilson asked. The hand moved to his hair and ruffled it, followed by a “there you go, old boy,” and Maxwell found himself clenching his jaw and fighting a blush. _Why are you like this?_ he mused to himself bitterly.

 

Wilson, to his credit, didn’t say anything about it and slipped outside the tent to grab the promised food. Frustrated at his own idiotic reaction, Maxwell rubbed at his cheeks and fixed his hair the best he could manage without a reflection. He didn’t want to acknowledge the feeling in his gut—warm and fizzy as it was. He scooted back until he was reclined against a pile of grass, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing deeply. The air was silent, peaceful, and he let his eyes close, exhaling slowly. _It’s fine. Just don’t think about it. Keep..._ that _and everything like it back with a ten-foot pole._

 

“Falling asleep already, Max?”

 

He opened one eye.

 

“Nnf.”

 

“Mmm, very sophisticated. Sit up, I’ve meat stew from the other night. The one I made, so it’s not half-charred,” Wilson said, grinning, “You’re welcome to have the whole thing.”

 

Maxwell rolled his eyes and complied, righting himself until he was slumped over from the weight of the blanket. The smell was admittedly intoxicating, though he grimaced at the idea of eating it all. He wasn’t a damn pig. “Higgsbury, who do you take me for? That there is enough for at least two if not three people. Just give me a bowl and be on your way now.”

 

“Dry up, Max, and eat the stew. The whole thing’s for you, are you aren’t about to convince me otherwise. Since I recognize when I’m dying of starvation, I already ate before I even went to save you,” Wilson said, and handed a spoon to the other, who glared daggers at it. “I’ll even keep you company,” he added, and plopped down next to Maxwell, already rummaging through his backpack.

 

After a few moments of debating, Maxwell dunked the spoon and savored the taste of the stew. He’d never admit it, but Wilson was a hell of a chef, somehow. Maybe being a dewdropper made one good at being a housewife. He stayed on that train of thought for a while, before a dull clang startled him out of it. He looked down and realized with vague disbelief that he had indeed finished off the entire pot, the contents of which had settled low and heavy in his gut. God, he could use a long nap.

 

Then, naturally, Wilson had to pipe up. “See, what did I tell y—”

 

“Can it, Higgsbury!” Maxwell snapped while kicking off his shoes. The blanket had warmed the rest of him well enough, and he took his jacket off as well, placing it alongside his shoes before laying down. “Wilson— What the hell are you doing?” he asked as the man took his own shoes off, “You have your own tent.”

 

“Blah, blah, look, it’s too cold to sleep alone. Move over.”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

Maxwell was met with a grunt as Wilson laid down next to him with his own blanket. “See? Body heat. This way we won’t freeze. Do you do anything other than frown? Honestly, it’s not that bad. I’d even argue you like it.”

 

“Fine, Wilson. Do whatever you’d like. I’m going to sleep,” Maxwell mumbled, closing his eyes once again and turning on his side. Too comfortably full and exhausted to move, he didn’t argue when Wilson’s hand again messed up his hair, gently digging into his scalp. He instead found himself drowsily curling into the other man, draping an arm over him as if he’d try to leave. It wasn’t half bad, really. He could get used to being a little close to someone. Just a little.

  



End file.
